


Late Nights

by midnightsummer



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Loneliness, Love Confessions, Overthinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightsummer/pseuds/midnightsummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late nights all alone in an empty tent, Mulcahy has only himself to talk to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Nights

**Author's Note:**

> First Fic, just a little dip into writing, let me know what you think. :)

“I’m not a very good priest.” 

A quiet confession in the middle of the night, in a lonely tent, in a place that couldn’t even be compared to Hell. 

“I’m not. In fact, I’m a very bad priest.” 

No one to hear the sad voice that spoke, no one to comfort the voice, no one to tell the voice was wrong. 

“I don’t want to be a priest anymore.” 

A confession that was almost not utter. 

“I want… I would like… I don’t know what I want.” 

That confession was wrong: a lie. And the voice knew it. 

“Please, touch me.” 

A plead, a cry for love fallen on empty silence.

“I just want… “

What? What do you want? To be home? To not be cold? To not see endless bloodshed? To be loved? To have someone to love back? To have Hawk-?

“Shut up! Just shut up! Please, stop.” 

A quiet sob in the middle of the night, in a lonely tent, in a place that couldn’t even be compared to Hell. 

“I’m a bad priest.” 

The last thought before sleep took over. 

 

“Good morning Father! Gee, you don’t look too good. Did you get any sleep last night?”

A question asked louder, funnier, friendlier, in the middle of the morning, in a crowded mess tent, in a place that could be compared to Heaven because this voice was here. 

“No, not really. Couldn’t fall asleep it seems.” 

The voice from last night says, denoted of all sobs and empty confessions. 

“I had the same problem; couldn’t fall asleep. Too much on my mind.” 

Did you? What were you think about? Was is about what you want? Or wanting to go home? Or not wanting to be cold? Or wanting to stop seeing the endless bloodshed? Or wanting to be loved? And wanting to be loved back? Or wanting to have me? 

I can’t give you a home, or make you warm, or to stop this war. But I can love you. As I always have and always will since that day. 

“Well, I got to get over to post-op. See you around Father.” 

The voice leaves, and somehow, the crowed mess tent seems lonely, quiet, sad, in the middle of the morning, in a place that was Hell. 

“See you around, Hawkeye.” 

The voice quiet. Behind the words, a deeper meaning. 

“I love you Hawkeye.”

But that voice was only said in a quiet confession in the middle of the night, in a lonely tent, in a place that couldn’t even be compared to Hell. 

As it always was and always will be, since that first day to his very last day as Father Francis John Patrick Mulchay.


End file.
